The Parade
I went with my friend Patrick,
every bit his pint of Guinness
or two
or half a dozen.
On the 17th of March
wherever you find yourself
you go to the parade.
We found ourselves in Montreal that year,
he by chance
I by choice,
and we met at a pub
twelve streets south of Sherbrooke.
As close to an Irish pub as you can get
in the whole of Canada,
run by an expatriate,
staffed by girls you swear he imported
with the beer.
We got there early
found stools at the bar
and ordered our first cups of kindness.
The dimpled waitress
knew how to time a draft,
her astounding legs
flowed from her short black skirt
like streaks of good fortune
that made you feel your dreams would come awake
as you sipped through the clovers
she drew in the foam.
“The next Picasso,
hiding away in a pub,”
he said, looking at his pint in admiration.
Her grin broke open naturally,
and it made us golden
as the first green of spring.
“To art,
wherever we find it,”
I said.
We made many such toasts,
quoting expansively,
singing songs,
telling jokes
with every sip.
By the time the parade arrived
we had enjoyed quite a few,
and Patrick said to me, smiling,
“Should we have a few too many?”
I thought for a moment.
“It’s an occasion after all,” he said
as if he could get my eyebrow to be raised
in yet another toast
rather than simple hesitation,
a back door open to Apollo
while Dionysus waits on the porch.
“Let’s watch the procession,”
I said with a slap on his back,
“and we’ll see how it goes.”
With that we stepped into the streets,
our feet like floating bees
our smiles full of royal jelly.
You might guess that such a locale
would produce an event a bit less than ideal,
but perhaps it takes more spirit
to raise such an event at all
so far from Boston and New York.
I must say I never really liked parades.
I want to say I can’t judge it.
Bands played, people
walked in step
some with a little drink in them
some with a lot of drink in them . . .
A float came toward us,
a man standing on it with legs
weakened by booze . . .
Just as he came in front of us
he fell off the float--
not ten feet in front of us--
my mouth and eyes opened like blooms
as the wheel of the float
rolled perfectly over his legs.
I saw his pants fill brown.
My guts jerked.
I turned to Patrick
who offered nothing
but scatology.
Not out of pun
but because he had nothing
left in him.
We squirmed at the prospect
of continuing to stare.
In an abruptly synchronous gesture
like birds scattering from a fence
we returned to the pub.
As the spunky girl, dimples aglow,
pulled our muddy drafts
Patrick turned to me, saying,
“Remember when I asked
if we should have a few too many?”
“Yes,” I said with a nod.
He smiled a smile
like Camus would have
in a moment of humorous compassion
saying, “It is an occasion
after all.”
every bit his pint of Guinness
or two
or half a dozen.
On the 17th of March
wherever you find yourself
you go to the parade.
We found ourselves in Montreal that year,
he by chance
I by choice,
and we met at a pub
twelve streets south of Sherbrooke.
As close to an Irish pub as you can get
in the whole of Canada,
run by an expatriate,
staffed by girls you swear he imported
with the beer.
We got there early
found stools at the bar
and ordered our first cups of kindness.
The dimpled waitress
knew how to time a draft,
her astounding legs
flowed from her short black skirt
like streaks of good fortune
that made you feel your dreams would come awake
as you sipped through the clovers
she drew in the foam.
“The next Picasso,
hiding away in a pub,”
he said, looking at his pint in admiration.
Her grin broke open naturally,
and it made us golden
as the first green of spring.
“To art,
wherever we find it,”
I said.
We made many such toasts,
quoting expansively,
singing songs,
telling jokes
with every sip.
By the time the parade arrived
we had enjoyed quite a few,
and Patrick said to me, smiling,
“Should we have a few too many?”
I thought for a moment.
“It’s an occasion after all,” he said
as if he could get my eyebrow to be raised
in yet another toast
rather than simple hesitation,
a back door open to Apollo
while Dionysus waits on the porch.
“Let’s watch the procession,”
I said with a slap on his back,
“and we’ll see how it goes.”
With that we stepped into the streets,
our feet like floating bees
our smiles full of royal jelly.
You might guess that such a locale
would produce an event a bit less than ideal,
but perhaps it takes more spirit
to raise such an event at all
so far from Boston and New York.
I must say I never really liked parades.
I want to say I can’t judge it.
Bands played, people
walked in step
some with a little drink in them
some with a lot of drink in them . . .
A float came toward us,
a man standing on it with legs
weakened by booze . . .
Just as he came in front of us
he fell off the float--
not ten feet in front of us--
my mouth and eyes opened like blooms
as the wheel of the float
rolled perfectly over his legs.
I saw his pants fill brown.
My guts jerked.
I turned to Patrick
who offered nothing
but scatology.
Not out of pun
but because he had nothing
left in him.
We squirmed at the prospect
of continuing to stare.
In an abruptly synchronous gesture
like birds scattering from a fence
we returned to the pub.
As the spunky girl, dimples aglow,
pulled our muddy drafts
Patrick turned to me, saying,
“Remember when I asked
if we should have a few too many?”
“Yes,” I said with a nod.
He smiled a smile
like Camus would have
in a moment of humorous compassion
saying, “It is an occasion
after all.”